


From Darkness, Light

by StarlingGirl



Category: Warcraft (2016)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 21:40:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7378384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlingGirl/pseuds/StarlingGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They cannot mourn Medivh's passing as they might once have done.</p>
<p>Pre-slash, if you squint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Darkness, Light

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little experimental trial with these two before I start actually writing Things, with Plot and Other Necessary Things. Short. Sweet. Liontrust, at least at heart.

The city is glittering.

It’s warm, unseasonably so. Lothar’s sleeves are pushed up, haphazard, his hair pulled back from his face. Even up here, there’s no breeze. A faint sheen of sweat has settled itself along crossed arms, up the line of his neck.

Khadgar, silent, watches him watching the rivers of light winding and flowing together. They brighten and intertwine until they reach the statue of Medivh, Guardian of Azeroth, pooling in a soft golden glow that peaks to blinding. Every man, woman and child stands out under the stars tonight, candle clutched in their hand. Except Anduin Lothar. It’s a heavy burden of truth he bears. Khadgar knows, being the only other to share it. For days now, he’s waited for Lothar to reveal it. It seems the sort of brash and thoughtless act the man is prone to.

   (His surprise at Lothar’s silence is tinged with guilt; he has proved himself already to be more than just a reckless soldier.)

It seems, though, that he cannot bring himself to join the mourning crowds. Khadgar thinks he understands. He too, felt that to hold a candle – to walk with the rest – would be somehow false. They mourn more than just the passing of the Guardian.

“He was still a good man, you know.” Lothar startles at the voice behind him, tension searing through his bones and dissipating just as quickly as the voice is recognised. “At the end.”

“I know.” Lothar sounds defiant, like he objects to the suggestion he might ever have thought otherwise. He observes Khadgar for a moment. The mage shifts, discomfort obvious on his face. He doesn’t know what to say. Lothar spares him by turning back to the view. For a long second, Khadgar hesitates – but the soldier’s stance is not as closed off as it could be, nor has he sent him away. This, he supposes, is the closest he will get to an invitation. He moves forward. Below them, the veins of the city glow.

“He told me,” Khadgar begins to say. Loses his nerve as Lothar turns his clear grey eyes on him. Stutter-stops, takes a breath, starts over. “He told me you were old friends?” He hadn’t intended it to sound like a question. The look sent his way makes it clear that Lothar sees right through him, and he’s glad of the darkness; it hides the blush he’s sure is rising high on his cheeks.

“No he didn’t,” comes the matter-of-fact reply.

“Well – no. I thought you might – I thought it would –”

“You think that I can’t deal with it. You think that I’ve lost my son –” Lothar’s voice breaks. He pushes past the stumble. “—my son and my two closest friends in the space of days. You think I need to talk about it.” Khadgar can hardly deny it. After all, that’s exactly what he thinks. He chooses silence over agreement.

“I don’t need to talk about it,” Lothar assures him.

“Fine,” Khadgar returns. Neither challenges the other’s barefaced lie.

Another long moment’s silence, the murmur of song reaches them from the crowded streets below. Khadgar swallows against a lump in his throat.

“From darkness,” he murmurs. “Light.” Lothar says nothing. But, Khadgar thinks, there’s a subtle shift there, a redistribution of weight that brings them just a fraction closer together. This is their mourning, up here in the warmth of the night. Let the people keep their trust in Guardians, in Medivh. Let them be the ones to carry the weight of his actions.

(Together, he thinks, and then pretends he hasn’t. He’s blushed enough tonight, even under the cover of gentle darkness.)


End file.
